


Isolation

by OnceYoungHearts



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Descent into Madness, Isolation, M/M, Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceYoungHearts/pseuds/OnceYoungHearts
Summary: This military posting is possibly the worst one he's ever received. The only thing worse than the silence and boredom is the inescapable proximity to Brendon Urie.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write this oneshot for months, but now that the world has made it oddly topical, I forced myself to finish it. It's something pretty different for me, so I hope you enjoy!

The realization that I don't even know what the weather feels like outside hits me like a ton of bricks. I close my eyes and take a few deep, calming breaths, trying to quell the feeling of claustrophobia before it fully manifests. When I accepted this posting, I didn't think for a second that I would have a hard time with it. Being inside and stationary is my ideal state. I was never cut out for armed combat or going under cover. Don't get me wrong, I can do those things, and I'm even told I do them well, but it never came naturally to me. I had to train for months just to be able to fire a gun without flinching. 

A hand lands on my shoulder, startling me out of my mindful breathing. My eyes fly open and take a few seconds to focus on Brendon's face. He looks concerned, but doesn't immediately say anything. 

"I'm fine. Just feeling a little nauseated," I try to justify. My stomach's contents do feel like they're on the verge of forcing their way up my oesophagus, but that's more the symptom than the cause.

Brendon just nods, and I can't tell if he believes me. It's been three days and I still can't get a read on this guy. He barely ever talks, although after the first day, none of us seem to. What would we even talk about? We came in here as perfect strangers, and any small talk feels forced and awkward. His hand lingers on my shoulder for a few seconds before he stands back up and returns to his side of the truck. 

My back is pressed uncomfortably against the metal wall, but I'm only faintly aware of it somewhere in the back of my mind. I try to release the deathgrip I have on my sleeping bag, and my fingers feel sore once the blood flow returns to them. The wind is buffeting the vehicle, making the bed of the truck sway slightly on its suspension. At least now I know it's windy outside.

\------------

I'm trying to remember that first day, the first few minutes of my voluntary confinement, when I climbed into the back of this eighteen wheeler. The outside was disguised with the logo of a grocery store. I'm sure there's a joke about the truck having bad apples inside, but I'm too tired to fully formulate it.

My eyes fixed on the far wall, up where the cab of the truck would be. The screens weren't yet turned on, so the glossy darkness that covered that whole end only reflected back the four men climbing hesitantly into the container. We looked excited, and Brendon even bumped my shoulder with his as we claimed which corner would be whose and who would take the first shift. The latter part of the conversation was pretty useless, since none of us even tried to sleep for the next half of a day. Once the monitors turned on and we got a full 360 view of the truck's surroundings, the adrenaline kicked in. 

Some small part of me really believed we'd see it on that first day. Every time the movement of a branch caught my attention on one of the cameras, I thought it would be him. Of course it never was, and now, after however many days it's been, I'm not sure I believe he will come. Maybe we'll all die here in this truck, and no one will remember us.

\------------

Brendon has started talking in his sleep. He didn't do that either of the first few nights, but it's gotten progressively louder and he sounds more terrified of his dreams. The words are unintelligible, but I get the meaning of them anyway. He sits bolt upright, gasping for breath and looking around wildly for an imagined threat. All he finds is the same four walls, the same three other people, and suffocating monotony. 

\------------

My emotions as of late have been like a metronome. They're either off, or completely on, with little time spent in that space between. 

That makes it sound too predictable. A measured rhythm that you always know the next location of. This is more like those horrible arcade racing games. The ones with the ridiculously sensitive steering where you barely have to touch the wheel to go careening off into a guard rail. Then your digital car scrapes along, screeching metal on metal for what feels like forever, before you attempt to steer it back onto the road. Except even the slightest correction is still too much, and you cut wildly across the path just to slam into the wall on the other side. Your paint gets rubbed off and your forward momentum all but ceases as the friction builds and your car refuses to go any further. In those games, a car can just re-spawn if it's dealt too much damage or it ends up trapped upside down with no way to right itself. 

My emotions don't have that ability.

\------------

The realization that I've been staring at him hits me all at once. If he hadn't turned and noticed my gaze, I'd probably still be doing it. I swear there were no specific thoughts going through my mind, he just happened to be where my eyes were aimed. 

I blinked and looked away as quickly as possible, but I can feel my face getting warmer as he stares at me, barely visible in my periphery. 

I can't remember the last time I spoke, and my voice comes out raspy as I try desperately to cause a distraction. "What if we play poker or something?" He's still staring at me. I'm not even sure if he's breathing. 

The taller guy who isn't on shift watching the monitors studies me with interest. "Have you had cards this whole time and not mentioned it?" That's a great question. I don't know why I didn't think of it until now.

"Does that mean you're in?" 

He scoffs. "Duh. I'm so bored, I'd agree to play strip poker if that was the only option." I try to keep my face even as I weigh possibilities to make that happen. The idea is quickly rejected. Without alcohol the odds seem unlikely anyone could be convinced. Why am I even considering it? 

The shorter guy who has his eyes glued to the screens groans as he stretches his arms over his head. "Of course you come up with this on my shift. Someone needs to narrate the game so I can follow along." He tilts his head dramatically to the side and his neck cracks loudly. I flinch without meaning to.

The taller one huffs through his nose. "You can play when it's your turn, Jon." He says the other guy's name with a weird inflection, and I'm left wondering if they knew each other before being stationed here. I hadn't picked up on that vibe before, but I really wasn't paying attention. 

"You can fuck yourself when it's your turn, Spencer." A surprised laugh from the other side of the truck startles me. I’ve gotten so on edge being in here. Brendon finally stopped looking at me, a hand clasped over his mouth in an attempt to suppress the silent giggles that his body is shaking with. 

After a few seconds, Brendon manages to collect himself. "Sorry, I think I'm just sleep deprived." He's looking at me as he speaks, and something about it makes me respond, even if it's not required. 

"You don't have to apologize." He really doesn't. I like hearing his laugh.

I start digging through my bag for the pack of cards I threw in there when I packed. Brendon and Spencer are clearing a spot in the middle of the floor for us to play on. I can't remember when our belongings spread over the whole interior of the truck, but you can barely see the floor in here anymore. I definitely wouldn't say it feels homey in here, but it's more comfortable than it was when we first stepped in. I wonder what we'll do for laundry when the clothes start to stink. How well thought out was this whole plan anyway?

I toss the pack to Spencer and he deals us the first hand. Jon is pouting over in the other end of the truck about being excluded, but I can't bring myself to care. This is day... I guess six? None of them have been eventful enough to actually mark a passage of time. We all have a tiny bit of stubble growing on our chins, but other than that we're physically the same as we were a week ago. Mentally is a very different story. 

I was never great at poker. I don't know why it was the first game I could think of, apart from the fact that most people know how to play it. I’m better at reading people than I am at playing the odds or calculating how likely I am to win a hand. My cards are off suit, and I place them face down on the ground, not needing to feign my indifference about them. 

"Oh," Spencer said quietly, looking around himself. "What do we have to bet with?"

\---------

Brendon’s tell is that he swallows. The thought occurs to me in a flash, and the way it sounds in my head is almost enough to make me giggle out loud. I cut my eyes away from him, trying to focus on Spencer as he nervously chews on his bottom lip. I can see Brendon studying me out of the corner of my eye, but I can't bring myself to make eye contact. The visual of his throat working, the muscles forcing downwards and tensing, is making my own mouth dry. 

I can't even hear the bluffs falling from his lips, the motion of his throat is enough to tell me what his cards hold.

"I raise," I say, voice as calm and detached as I can make it. Both of them look terrified, trying to read any flicker of doubt in my face. There isn't any.

"Fold."

"Fold." 

They throw their cards in the middle, and I toss mine on top, pulling the pile of pretzels towards myself. They're both down to only a few each, and I can tell they'd rather call the game quits than admit defeat. It’s a soldier mentality to be a sore loser.

"I think I'm about ready for a nap," I attempt to give them an out. They nod without any further comment, Brendon shoving his remaining pretzels in his mouth as he makes his way back to his corner.

\------------

_ “Do I really have to do this?” He gets up to shut his office door, shooting me a glare for my insubordinate tone. He doesn’t care if I talk to him casually so long as others can’t hear it. _

_ “This is not a request; it’s an order.” His tone is harsh, but his face softens just enough to be noticable when he sees how guilty I feel. _

_ “I’m sorry, Pete. It was such a dumb choice.” I force myself to make eye contact, even though it’s the last thing I want to do.  _

_ “This won’t be the end of your career. You just have to put up with some shitty assignments, and work your ass off. The higher ups will see it was a one-time thing.” I nod in agreement, biting my tongue to stop a rude comment from coming out. It’s not Pete’s fault I fucked up, and it’s not his fault his superiors are giving me the worst assignments as some twisted kind of punishment. “It really won’t be horrible, you’re on an indefinite stakeout with three other soldiers. You take shifts watching for the target, and if you spot him or his vehicle, you radio for backup. If anything, it’ll be boring and lonely.” _

_ “I don’t get lonely,” I tell him. He looks thoroughly unconvinced. _

_ “Look man, just try not to think with your dick this time.” _

_ A startled laugh escapes my throat at his bluntness. “Hell no. It wasn’t worth all this trouble.” Flashes of skin on skin and smothered moans surface in the back of my mind, and I wonder if I actually mean those words. _

_ “It never is.” _

\------------

The past few days, in those moments between sleep and waking, when all I notice is the feel of warm blankets wrapped around me, and all I hear is the deep steady breaths coming from Brendon as he sleeps near me, I allow myself to imagine a different life. In this life, we're in a bed together, him wrapped around me, instead of multiple feet apart in our own corners of this truck, waiting for something that may never happen. 

My whole life feels like a waiting game for things that never happen.

\------------

I never thought I would be the type to go stir crazy. Have cabin fever. These terms keep swimming around my mind, and despite my knowledge to the contrary, it feels like we’re running out of air. I feel a need to take deep calming breaths, but I can still feel my pulse racing in my neck. I can’t quiet the thoughts that keep coming. Every thought is about these walls, these people, this mission. I couldn’t form a thought about the outside world if I tried. 

Brendon snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I have to blink for a few moments before I’m able to actually focus my eyes on him. “Oh, uh, sorry?” His expression looks mildly annoyed and it only seems appropriate to apologize. I’m not sure what I did to annoy him though.

“It’s your turn on watch,” Brendon says, not hesitating to crawl into his sleeping bag and face the wall, ignoring me now that he’s done his duty in passing off the post.

My gaze lingers on him for a few moments until I feel guilty leaving the monitors alone. If we were to miss him passing on my watch, I don’t know how I’d ever begin to explain that. Especially if my excuse was that I was staring at Brendon. 

I pull myself to my feet and shuffle across the floor, my sleeping bag still draped over my shoulders. The air in here definitely isn’t cold, despite the snow I can see blowing across the screens that show the outside world. 

A fleeting thought crosses my mind, asking how I can believe that what these screens are showing us is reality. For all I know, these are recorded images of another part of the world entirely, and this is all some trick. Maybe not a trick, maybe it’s a punishment. Or a test. See how long we’ll stay in here with minimal instructions and no hope of a quick release. See if we start to go mad. I think I already am.

I brought a journal with me, but I haven’t been able to make myself write in it. What would I even say? Some fractured version of these jumbled thoughts that race around my head? Nothing has changed except the way I’m viewing my surroundings, so any record of it would show a pathetic descent into chaotic thoughts. If anyone found out what’s going through my head, it would probably warrant a discharge based on grounds of instability. 

So I won’t risk it. I don’t think writing it down would help anyway. Usually that puts the ideas in order, or perspective, or at the very least gives them actual words. These emotions are ineffable. I’m not even sure what I’m feeling, because English doesn’t have words for it. They don’t happen enough for it to be necessary to have a way to talk about it. I bet German would have a word for it.

\------------

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on my watch by the time Brendon sits down next to me. I try not to jump, but I was so deep in my thoughts I didn’t notice him coming over. He looks exhausted, so I don’t think it’s been too long since he tried to sleep. 

I glance over my shoulder, noting that the other two are still deep in their unconscious state. When my eyes return to the never changing monitors, I find myself squinting a little. Not at anything there, because of course there isn’t, but at Brendon’s actions. I’ve done more watches than I can remember to count, but not a single one has had company. I don’t want to ask him what he’s doing and scare him away, so I end up sitting in silence and appreciating his presence beside me. 

He’s sitting leaning back with his hands supporting his weight, and I shift to mimic the posture for the sole purpose of putting my hand near his. Even though I don’t plan to touch him, or expect him to initiate anything, a little flutter of excitement builds in my stomach. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he provides the excuse even though I didn’t ask. I nod in acknowledgement, still too afraid to say anything that might spook him. 

\------------

The backdoor of the truck opens, and I blink against the blinding light that floods into our space. It sounds stupid to say I forgot how bright the sun can be, but as I fight to keep my eyes open and feel them start to water, I can’t remember a time when it ever felt this bright. 

I can vaguely make out the silhouette of the man standing in the doorway enough to guess it’s the guy that gave me this assignment. Not many men in the military are that short. When he speaks, his voice sounds familiar, and he says exactly what I was hoping he would. “Okay, you’re free to go, men. They caught the target fifty miles south from here, so your assignment is complete. You’ll be contacted individually for debriefing, and then given your next assignments after a well-deserved break.” He straightens his form and gives us a salute. “Thank you for your service.” 

I can’t tell if he was moving quickly, or my brain is experiencing some lag, but the Sergeant has disappeared before I have time to acknowledge anything he said. 

I turn to gather my belongings, realizing just how spread out they are over the whole interior of the vehicle. The sun is catching in Brendon’s hair, making it shine a brilliant brown where the inside light had always made it seem black. I try to say something to him, but the words get caught in my throat. What would I say anyway? Hey, wanna grab a coffee?

The others have just about finished packing by the time I realize I’m staring aimlessly at Brendon. The embarrassed flush on my cheeks is enough to make me grab everything and shove it into my duffle bag with enough haste to finish at the same time as them. 

Spencer and Jon jump down out of the truck first, relishing the ability to stretch out their backs and turn their faces up to the sun. As much as I want to join them, something makes me hesitate. 

“Hey,” my voice comes out too soft, too sentimental. I try to keep my eyes on Brendon as he turns to look at me. “Thanks for making this station bearable.”

His answering nod is jerky, and his eye contact is fleeting. “You too, man. Take care of yourself.” He goes to walk past me and I pull him into a hug. His arms come up to pat me on the back, and I can’t help but grin at the feeling of his entire body pressed up against mine. Maybe asking him out to coffee wouldn’t be the worst idea.

He pulls back and gives me a smile before jumping down from the truck. I go to follow him, maybe call his name just to see him turn around and smile at me once more, but he’s already headed towards a nearby car. There’s a man leaning against it, and when Brendon gets close enough, they take the remaining steps towards each other and he pulls Brendon into what looks like a crushing hug. 

My feet take me over to where Sergant Wentz is standing, though my eyes can’t seem to leave Brendon and the guy he’s hugging. Wentz tosses my keys at me, and I only manage to catch them because they hit my chest and slide down onto my arm. 

“Valdez, I brought your car since the others all had family picking them up.” 

A small spark of hope ignites inside of me. “Family?” I echo. I wonder if it sounds as hopeful to his ears as it does to mine.

“Well, partners. I’m sure you know about Brendon’s husband, Ryan. You guys were in there long enough to share your whole life stories.” Wentz grins and thumps me on the back in a familiar way. I didn’t think about him enough in there to miss him, but seeing a friendly face softens the blow of my heart shattering inside of my chest. “It’s good to see you, Shane. Now could you drive us to your house so I can get my car? It’s way too cold and early for this.” Only a small portion of my brain is listening to Wentz’s rambling as the rest is hyperfocused on Brendon and his husband making out against the car. Are they unaware it’s the middle of fucking winter?

I have to force myself to look away, unlocking the car and sliding behind the wheel. Wentz slides into the passenger seat and continues his babbling, updating me on everything I missed going on in the world while I was stuck in that truck. I’m still not sure how many days we were in there, but at this point I’m afraid to ask. 

It feels like some cosmic joke as I peel off down the road, trying to put as much space between me at than godforsaken truck as possible, that Brendon stays squarely in the middle of my rearview mirror, getting smaller and smaller, even though my feelings for him refuse to do the same. 


End file.
